


Train

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, M/M, Medical Examination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-13 00:32:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. McCoy gives Chekov a (very inappropriate) check-up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Train

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This has been edited since posting to be more consensual and give Chekov some of his TOS eagerness.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

If there is a hell, Leonard’s got a one-way ticket.

The doors sliding shut behind them are the nails on his coffin. He barks, “Lights,” but the room must hear the need in his voice, because they only come on halfway. Either Chekov doesn’t notice the distinctly- _mood_ lighting, or it’s just what he expected. He follows Leonard past the chairs and couches and the console-desk, right through past the half-walls to the sectioned-off bedroom. The bed’s against the far wall, and the whole way there, Leonard knows he needs to stop walking and turn around.

But he still guides Chekov over to it, turns around and gestures for him to sit. Hazel eyes wide and trusting like a doe’s, Chekov listens. 

Because Leonard’s not a complete monster, he does repeat, “Everyone else in the landing party checked out fine, so it’s highly unlikely there’s anything wrong with you.”

“It is still good to double check,” Chekov insists, legs together and hands on his knees. His uniform’s still a little rumpled from when he first came out of the shuttlecraft—Leonard and his dirty old mind suspect Sulu. It’s highly unlikely they spent the three-hour journey back to the Enterprise without doing anything, especially given that the three red-shirts in the back were unconscious. Leonard, for one, can’t imagine being locked in a crammed space with a pretty little Russian minx like Chekov and not at least _trying_ something. 

But anyway. Sickbay really _was_ full; that wasn’t a lie. Chekov was the one to suggest his quarters. The security men are being held in proper medical beds until the sedative leaves their system, but they’re otherwise unharmed, as is Sulu. One of Leonard’s nurses is conducting a little ‘experiment’ that has the rest of the beds taken up, and technically, his shift’s over anyway. There’s never really a clear nighttime in space, but with the stars passing his shuttered-off window next to the bed, it feels late enough.

“Well,” Leonard says slowly, fighting himself and failing. “I don’t have most of the necessary equipment here to do a proper examination,” he stretches the truth, adding, “but I can do a few preliminary tests.”

Chekov nods eagerly, almost leaning forward. “I understand, Doctor.”

Good lord. It’s too easy. He can’t tell quite if he’s been solicited or not, subtle and sweet, though he knows he should just ask. Instead, before he can stop himself, Leonard’s saying, “Take off your shirt.”

Chekov barely hesitates, maybe just for show. His cheeks flush ever so slightly, shoulders hunching coquettishly, but he pulls the yellow and black shirts over his head, folding them neatly and placing them beside himself. Leonard takes a moment to look over that creamy expanse of pale skin, lithe and beautifully shaped, rosy pink nipples not quite flat. Leonard licks his lips and goes too far. “You better... you could take off your pants, too. I mean, if you’re here, we may as well do a full checkup...”

Chekov smiles, blush growing. He nods understandingly, standing back up. He slowly shimmies out of his uniform-issue pants, left in little white boxers, almost tight enough to be briefs. He folds his pants and puts them on top of his shirt. After a pause, he takes off his white ankle socks, too.

Then he stands at attention, arms stiff at his sides, looking up through his lashes, straight at Leonard. But he stays where he is. He could leave at anytime, Leonard tells himself. There are no restraints. The door’s right over there. Chekov _asked_ for this, even though Leonard’s not sure what ‘this’ was.... When Leonard takes too long to do anything else, not ogling Chekov like he wants but battling guilt, Chekov murmurs, “Doctor? Should I get on your bed...?” 

It’s Leonard’s turn to flush, and he rushes back into his grumpy self, barking, “Get back on the bed. Lie down on your back, arms at your sides.” 

Chekov turns and crawls onto the bed, and Leonard _stares_ at his young, ripe ass while it moves, boxers too short not to offer Leonard a peek up them when he arches. He’s definitely arching deliberately. Then he lies there like a limp doll, much too young for Leonard and much too alluring for these games.

A deep breath. Leonard puts one knee on the bed, next to Chekov’s feet. He’s really going to do this. And he’s going to get away with it. There’s something that always feels _wrong_ about using his position, his power, but when they _ask_... he’s been giving Jim private exams for months, and that’s always gone well... but Chekov’s younger and coy and unlike Jim, Leonard could give him a _proper_ checkup just fine.

“I can go back and fetch a medical tricorder if zhat would help,” Chekov mumbles, absently eyeing the ceiling. “Alzhough, I am already naked...” Leonard doesn’t answer. He climbs on, spurred on, crawling up the bed to straddle Chekov’s hips. When he sits down, still fully clothed, Chekov’s breath hitches, lashes fluttering. His fingers fist in the sheets. 

“Nah, it’s too late for that,” Leonard grunts, fighting a gulp and playing along. “I’d be asleep by the time you got back. They might not have one to spare, anyway—ruddy supplies on this ship are half what they should be...”

“I appreciate you seeing me like zhis, Doctor,” Chekov says, off topic, and he looks down at Leonard, eyes _so_ sincere. His curls are swept cutely across his forehead. He bites his lower lip and looks up again, while Leonard stretches over him. 

Leonard says just as sincerely, “Trust me, the pleasure’s all mine.” Then he reaches out to cup Chekov’s chin, tilting it from side to side, as though examining his neck. Really, he’s just enjoying having his thumb so close to Chekov’s lips—it’d be so easy to slip it inside, and he gives in, leaning over his patient and deciding, “Open your mouth.”

Chekov submissively parts his lips. Perfect teeth, of course. A small, pink tongue. Tight, wet little throat. Or what Leonard can see from the outside; this is such a sham of a dental appointment—something he didn’t even as for. It’s much a charade as Jim’s manual prostate exams, which haven’ been medically practiced for centuries. Leonard’s half waiting for Chekov to suggest that route, but he’s so far slower than Jim is.

Leonard sort of wishes he had a flashlight on him so he could examine Chekov’s throat properly, sham or no. Instead, he turns Chekov’s head, pretending to put it under the light better, a slightly different angle. He puts his thumb in Chekov’s mouth and strokes Chekov’s silky tongue, pushing it flat against the bottom. Chekov’s still while Leonard rubs it, wondering what it would feel like to have his cock brushing it instead. Because he’s come this far and it’s _so easy_ , Leonard orders, “Wrap your tongue around it.”

Chekov curls his tongue, and he has to open his lips a little wider to do it. A tiny, moaning noise escapes that should’ve come from such a touch and makes Leonard’s pants feel tighter. Mostly for dramatic effect, Leonard frowns and makes a disappointed sound, as though rolling one’s tongue can indicate a grave illness. Distress flitters over Chekov’s face instantly. Either his mind’s invented a thousand alien diseases already, or he’s confused his erotic moan didn’t change Leonard’s mood.

Leonard’s not sure what mood he’s in. He’s both horny as hell and annoyed with himself for being too old and having come so far into this ridiculous game. He’s already positive Chekov is in perfect health, but he pulls out his thumb and sticks two fingers in anyway, just to get something bigger in there. Then he says, “Close your mouth.” Chekov’s lips wrap around Leonard’s fingers, pink and soft. Leonard nods and says, “Suck.” Chekov closes his eyes and sucks, drawling out another sensual noise, while Leonard gently pistons his fingers in and out, essentially fucking Chekov’s mouth, and deciding what to do.

Chekov’s legal, yes. That’s not enough. Leonard’s going to hell. He forces himself to pull his wet fingers out of Chekov’s tight, warm mouth, and he says, “Your reaction time’s a little slow and your saliva doesn’t quite feel right; you might’ve gotten some alien chemicals in your system similar to the other members of the landing party. Did you touch the same plants they did?” Because judging from the mission report, that’s the most likely thing. And he’s going to throw _some_ medical nonsense in, just to buy himself time.

“Nyet,” Chekov insists. “I mean, no.” He knits his brow together cutely, looking worried, and asks, “Am I going to be alright?” Then he bats his lashes and adds, “You can make me feel better zhough, yes? I can stay until you do...”

Good lord. It’s like telling a joke to Spock. He’s just getting himself more worked up. He tilts Chekov’s chin back up and glances down his body, deciding arbitrarily, “I’m not sure yet. I’ll have to check some key areas. Have you noticed any skin discoloration, particularly after stimulation?”

“What? No, but... but I’we had my uniform on...” Chekov starts to sit up on his elbows, wriggling his chest as though to check, but Leonard puts a hand on his chest and shoves him back down. 

“Don’t worry, I know where to look; we’ll get this sorted out.” He keeps his hand on Chekov’s chest and uses his other one to trace Chekov’s collarbone, getting it wet with saliva. More huskily than he means to, Leonard says, “Put your hands over your head—it’ll stretch out your muscles and make it easier for me to test them.”

Now Chekov’s smile flashes back, and he chirps simply, “Yes, sir.”

For a moment, Leonard considers tying them there, but then, it clearly isn’t necessary. Chekov’s one of the most submissive “patients” he’s ever had. Chekov lets Leonard feel down his chest without complaint, even when Leonard stops to pet his nipples, rubbing them in small circles, until they’re pebbled enough to tug on. Chekov’s cheeks are now undeniably pink, and his pupils are starting to dilate. He whimpers when Leonard tugs too harshly, and he bites his lip to stifle a moan when Leonard rubs them tenderly in his palms. 

He mumbles softly, nearly purring, “I am sorry, Sir. I don’t mean to be inappropriate...”

“It’s alright,” Leonard says dazedly. Really? _He’s_ getting an apology? “It happens all the time. In this case, it’s necessary—I need to see if your skin reacts strangely at all. Henderson developed scales on a small section of his abdomen when we applied a certain cream.”

“Really?” No. That was a complete lie. But Leonard nods anyway, and Chekov dons a flicker of annoyance; maybe that Leonard keeps mention _real_ medicine and other patients. 

Down to Chekov’s stomach, small and flat. There’s a tiny bit of light brown fuzz dipping below his boxers, but the rest of his body is smooth and hairless. Leonard puts one hand over his heart and another over his stomach, pretending to monitor his breathing. Then Leonard nods approvingly, moving down.

He’s tracing Chekov’s hipbones when he says, “If I don’t find anything and let you go, you should still check out your private areas when you return to your quarters, just in case.” Half chuckling, he adds, pushing, “I’m assuming you’d rather not have me check them here.”

Chekov lifts his head off the pillow again, but he keeps his hands where they are. Nose wrinkled, he mumbles, “Shouldn’t you...?” Then, retreating, he corrects, “Do you zhink zhere will be anything wrong wizh zhem?” 

Leonard just looks at him.

He means to say, ‘yes.’ Instead, he asks, “...When was the last time you had a prostate exam?”

Chekov tilts his head and flutters his lashes like he wouldn’t know, even though they both know he’s arguably the brightest ensign on this ship. “Is zhat covered in a regular checkup. Wizh a tricorder...?”

“Yes,” Leonard nods. “But especially given the invasive nature of those chemicals...” He gives that patented doctor look that says, ‘it’s probably fine, buuut...’

Looking sideways as though in thought, Chekov murmurs, “I... I can’t say for sure when my last exam was.” He looks back at Leonard, eyebrows knit together, biting his lip at the side and stifling a small smile, asking hoarsely, “Ah, doctor, if it is not too much trouble...”

Obviously, Chekov’s going to make him do all the work. “It’s fine, I’ll do it now,” Leonard answers, far more casually than he feels. Giving in. He takes a second to climb off Chekov’s body, and then he pats Chekov’s hip, barking, “Turn around and get up on your hands and knees.”

“I could just hold my legs up,” Chekov suggests, and he grabs his knees to demonstrate, legs spread in the air. Leonard almost chokes. For the love of.... there is nothing at all decent about that view. Or that flexibility. The undersides of Chekov’s thighs are calling to him, the outlined package in those thin boxers begging to be free. It’s clearly at least half-hard. Those knees would fit so easily over his shoulders...

“No, no, that would be completely inappropriate—I’ll pull off your underwear for this.”

“Of course.” Chekov blushes even deeper, and he drops his legs, murmuring, “I am sorry. Again. I did not mean...”

“It’s alright.” Leonard waves his hand dismissively and pats Chekov’s side again. Chekov nods and rolls over, shifting back to the middle of the bed on his hands and his knees. After a second, he adjusts, spreading his legs. Then he looks over his shoulder, back arched beautifully, all pale, milky skin and the elegant curve of his spine. Leonard settles behind him, feeling simultaneously like a horny teenager and a very, very dirty old man.

It isn’t like with Jim. Chekov isn’t handsome—he’s _pretty_ ; he’s _cute_ and _delectable_. When Leonard touches his ass, he leans eagerly back into it, the round flesh bulging between Leonard’s fingers, supple and pliant. Leonard peels down Chekov’s white boxers slowly, slipping them just beneath his cheeks, letting them spill out over the waistband obscenely. Then he grabs each cheek in his hands and kneads them, playing with them and rubbing them, trying to stifle his own moans. Half the reason to have Chekov turned around like this is so he won’t see what this is doing to Leonard—how much it’s making his pants tent. He hasn’t seen an ass this good for a long time. If Starfleet hadn’t worked out, Chekov could’ve done very well in porn...

Chekov makes a needy whining sound, and Leonard clears his throat to explain, “This is going to feel a little strange, and it might even hurt, so I’m just going to do everything I can to relax your muscles, okay?”

Chekov nods and mewls, “Yes, please.” He drops down so he can bury his face in Leonard’s pillow, and Leonard lets him. Having Chekov’s ass stuck up in the air like that, thighs trembling, makes it even better.

When Leonard lets go, he can’t resist slapping that taut ass quickly. Chekov cries out delightedly, thrusting back into it, and Leonard repeats, “Shh, relax.”

Then he pulls those two cheeks apart, blushing from the abuse. Nestled down Chekov’s crack is his little pink hole, puckered and tiny. For a few seconds, Leonard just stares at it. What a pretty thing. If only he had his PADD to take a picture for the records... 

Chekov squirms a little, asking hopefully, “Does it look alright?”

Leonard resists the urge to say, ‘delicious,’ and instead opts for, “That’s not how it works. I won’t know until I’m inside. ...You know how manual prostate exams work, right?”

Chekov muses dreamily, “I suppose.”

Leonard barks, “Good,” and spits on it. Chekov squeaks in surprise, but Leonard’s already spreading the saliva down his crack, dribbling it down to his furrowed entrance. It would take too long to get lube. Leonard’s impatient. Chekov’s hole looks so good glistening in the dim light, and Leonard’s tempted to shine it brighter, just to see. 

But then, that might spoil the mood of this incredibly inappropriate ‘medical check-up.’ He presses his index finger against Chekov’s entrance and asks, “Ready?”

Chekov mumbles, “Y... yes.” Leonard shoves the tip inside, and Chekov shrieks, “Da!”

It’s easily, hands down, the tightest ass Leonard’s ever been in, and it’s just one finger. He wants to whistle, wants to smack those round cheeks, but somehow he keeps himself steady, finger pressing in bit by bit. He goes slowly, and he says quietly, “Tell me if it hurts, and I’ll stop.”

Chekov nods. “Nngh.” But he doesn’t ask for it to stop. Leonard wants to ask if he’s a virgin—if he’s ever even touched himself like this—but somehow bites his tongue. Partially because it’ll come out like a predatory growl rather than a professional question; the heat’s getting to him. Chekov’s walls seem to suck Leonard further in, and he rubs around the entrance, ready for a second digit. 

When he has two fingers inside, scissoring gently apart, he reaches under Chekov’s stomach and presses up, lying, “I’ll get a better angle if you stay on all fours for me.” In reality, he just likes the way Chekov trembles to stay up. He hangs his head and his shoulders hunch, but he stays up like a good dog.

Leonard pets his lower back accordingly. Leonard squeezes a third finger in, and it’s too much; it might not go. Eventually, it does. With lots of Chekov panting and whimpering. Leonard reaches in as far as he can, thrusting knuckle-deep, exploring different angles. He knows when he’s found the right target not just from the feel, but the way Chekov cries out, arching, squirming. Leonard pistons into the same spot and rubs it, murmuring, “Yes, you’re doing very good...” Voice lowering huskily, he adds, “But there’s only one way for certain to know if everything’s alright... I’ll need to put something bigger inside you... is that alright, Pavel?” Because he should be able to use a person’s first name after burying three fingers in their ass.

Chekov nods his head, looking so heady he can barely stay up, and when his eyes open his pupils have almost swallowed his irises, looking half-lidded over his shoulder. He’s breathing heavily, and he’s blushing right to his ears. He mumbles, mouth open like a panting dog in heat, “Da...”

That’s good enough for Leonard. Hell will be worth it. Leonard reaches over to shove Chekov’s head down, so he can’t see what the ‘bigger’ thing is. Leonard’s pants are halfway down his thighs in an instant, cock hanging out, incredibly hard already. He spits in his palm and lathers himself up as best he can, knowing it probably won’t be enough, but at least he stretched Chekov well. He’s too big for this. He probably won’t fit. He’s a monster, and he’s going to fuck a boy with his monster cock. Hell in a hand basket.

He positions himself at Chekov’s dripping hole, grabs Chekov’s fragile hips, and slams brutally inside. Only the head pops in, but it’s enough for Chekov to _scream_ , shoulders hunching and fingers fisting in the sheets. Leonard grunts, taking a breath, and then he starts to rock slowly inside, centimeter by centimeter.

About halfway down the shaft, a wave of guilt and honesty grabs hold of Leonard’s foggy brain, and for whatever reason, all the games and nonsense go right out the window. He mumbles, “Shit, sorry, kid, couldn’t resist—I could... I could stop...” He’d have one hell of a time trying. But he feels compelled to say it anyway.

Chekov moans, “No,” and presses his hips back, helping to impale himself on Leonard’s engorged member. He wants to look at Chekov’s pretty face, but all he can do is _stare_ at the pink muscles sucking in his cock. It’s so unbelievably hot, so, so tight, utterly amazing. He grinds his hips until he’s properly sheathed, all the way to the balls. Then he takes a second for both of them to adjust, and Chekov pants, “P-please... may I... may I touch...”

Leonard’s not good at reaching around, especially with such delicious partners. He’s too greedy, too selfish. Just wants to touch everything. So he’s happy to lean over Chekov’s shuddering back, grab one of his delicate wrists and pull it back underneath his hunched body, putting it on his boxers. Then Leonard goes back to stroking Chekov’s lithe waist, growling, “Healthy boys should touch themselves regularly.”

Chekov groans and nods, like Leonard’s his new mentor and he’ll do everything Leonard says. He probably would. A part of Leonard is tempted to _not_ let him touch his cock, but then, that would just be cruel. Especially when Leonard’s having so much fun with his ass. Jim might not be the favourite patient anymore. 

“I’m gonna move.”

Chekov nods again. Leonard can tell from the moans and the way his hips are moving so sensually that Chekov’s gotten his cock out. He reaches one hand back, blindly groping for Leonard’s hip, holding tight when he reaches it. Leonard thumbs Chekov’s lower back tenderly, then starts to slip out. 

When only the head’s left inside, he slams right back in, hard enough to make Chekov scream again. Leonard catches his breath and does it again. Again, again. He starts to slide out and drive in, too hard for someone so small, someone so new, but it feels so good and he can’t control himself. His hips move on their own, skewering Chekov over and over, and the poor thing writhes beneath him and shrieks at every odd thrust, whimpering and moaning between them. Every noise is better than the last. Chekov tries to meet Leonard’s thrusts, pressing back into him.

A few more hard, deep thrusts, and Chekov’s arms collapse—he hits the pillow again, cheek turning against it, face all on display for Leonard to see. His eyes are closed tight, wet lips open, pretty and flushed all over. His ass stays up in the air. It couldn’t go anywhere. It’s glued to Leonard, and Leonard won’t let it go, fucking it so mercilessly. They sound like a porno. Wet slapping sounds, moaning, grunting, flesh on flesh. Leonard wants to see Chekov’s cock. He wishes he’d tasted Chekov’s ass. He should be fucking Chekov’s mouth. Next time, next time. There’ll definitely be a next time...

Getting close, Leonard surges down suddenly, still keeping Chekov’s ass held up, but leaning over his back, nipping at his shoulders. His skin’s lightly beaded with set, shimmering and begging Leonard to lick it. Leonard makes his way up Chekov’s neck, right to his ear, stubble scratching the shell. His arms are wrapped around Chekov’s body, still riding him hard. Leonard growls, “You should have a checkup at least once a month...”

“A m-month?” Chekov stumbles, sounding like his throat’s dry. Then he screams again, high-pitched and _scrumptious_.

Stabbing brutally into him, Leonard corrects, “Twice a month. Maybe once a week, if you’re naughty and need it—gotta make sure you’re up to par...”

Chekov nods weakly against the pillow. He licks his lips and manages, “Once a—Ah!—once a week, Sir.” He moans loudly when Leonard twists one of his nipples. 

There has to be more. Leonard wants to say more. Debase him, growl at him, make him whine and beg. But it’s too much. It’s too good, so incredibly, unbelievably tight, so hot, so perfect, so pliant, taking his cock all the way in. Another few thrusts, and it’s all Leonard can take. His balls tighten, knuckles tensing; he bites hard into Chekov, making a mark he’ll have to fix later. Chekov shrieks, and Leonard stops bothering to hold him up, slams him right into the mattress and explodes inside him. Leonard pins him down and grinds it all out, filling up his young ass with thick spurts of cum.

Leonard’s barely finished when Chekov moans loudly and starts jerking his hips erratically. He must be coming too. His ass spasms around Leonard’s cock, milking out the last bits and making him groan. He lets go of Chekov’s shoulder and waits a few seconds, letting Chekov finish. 

Then he pecks the back of Chekov’s neck—the first kiss of the night—murmuring, “Looks like you’re perfectly healthy.”

“Zha...” Chekov stops to breathe, eyes flickering open. “Zhank... you, Doctor...”

“Thank you for being a good patient,” Leonard chuckles. He’s vaguely aware he should move. He’s probably crushing the poor boy. But damn, even after it, when Leonard’s thoroughly satiated, Chekov feels good to touch. It takes a great amount of willpower to finally push himself off, savouring Chekov’s whine as he pulls his cock out. 

“I hope I didn’t hurt you too much...”

“N-no,” Chekov mumbles. He shakes his head. Then he pushes unsteadily to his elbows.

Leonard’s a terrible person. He shoves Chekov back down. Chekov glances over his shoulder in confusion, and Leonard can’t explain himself. He doesn’t bother trying. He gathers up Chekov’s clothes and lays them neatly beside the naked boy. Chekov’s underwear is still pulled down his thighs—still a great view.

Leonard coughs, “Let me give you some privacy.” Which is a completely absurd notion after everything that’s just happened, but oh well. He wanders dazedly over to the adjacent bathroom, and the thin door automatically slides open for and behind him. He walks to the sink and immediately splashes cold water on his face, almost not wanting to look at himself in the mirror.

He zips himself up. Not that he has to; it’s his quarters. Chekov will probably be gone by the time he gets out, or at least on the way out. Maybe Chekov will go tell Sulu, and Leonard will have to face an angry fencer in the morning. (Sulu’s a tough fighter.) Or maybe he’ll tell the captain, which would almost be worse. (Except Leonard knows how to handle Jim, unless someone also tells Spock, in which case Leonard might as well resign right now.)

Leonard should probably have a shower before he passes out. (Which he’s going to do soon; his body’s completely spent; it was a long day even before this incredible end.) But then, what’s the point? He’s probably going to wake up in the middle of the night from a wet dream about his new favourite patient and just jerk off again.

So he waits a few more second, then waltzes right back into his room, like nothing ever happened.

Chekov’s fully dressed and perched on the end of the bed, as though waiting for dismissal.

Leonard grumbles, “You’re dismissed, Ensign.” And this kid’s supposed to be a genius. 

“Ah, yes, I was wondering if perhaps... well, given zhat you said zhere might have been somezhing wrong with my mouth, perhaps you might want to keep me owernight?” Then he adds hastily, “It’s just zhat I know doctors sometimes do zhat, and perhaps you could check it again...”

It’s too late for this charade. It was fun as fuck, but now that’s over, and Leonard storms over to the bed, grabbing Chekov’s face in both of his hands and bending down to slam their lips together. Chekov squeaks, and Leonard takes the opportunity to pry past his open lips, fighting back his tongue. Leonard’s tongue sweeps over every centimeter, deliberately probing and tasting, and he sucks on Chekov’s tongue, and when he pulls back, he keeps Chekov’s bottom lip in his teeth, tugging at it. 

Chekov’s eyes stay closed a few seconds after. Leonard says, “Your mouth seems to be perfectly fine. You can go.”

“Are you sure?” Chekov’s eyes open halfway, and he tilts his head cutely. “Shouldn’t you put somezhing on my tongue again and make me suck it?”

Fucking hell. “Alright, you’re staying,” Leonard grumbles, because really, he _tried_. But seriously. 

Chekov lights up, saying sweetly, “Zhank you, doctor. You won’t regret it. I can sleep on zhe couch—”

“Get in the bed.”

“Okay.”

Chekov crawls back over to the head of the bed and starts pulling his clothes off, and Leonard pulls his own blue shirt over his head. It’s going to be a long night. 

But a damn good one, worth the one-way ticket.

**Author's Note:**

> Vague sequel: [Solar](http://archiveofourown.org/works/828283)


End file.
